


To Be Welcomed Home Again

by mettaverse



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 17:18:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11189748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mettaverse/pseuds/mettaverse
Summary: Shiro, the youthful prince of Altea, is sent to war. After two gruelling years on the battlefield, he comes back different. Changed.  When he left he was a smiling young man, newly wed and happy, so happy. He left seeing love in Lance's eyes as his horse trotted away from his childhood home.Now, coming back, will he see that love again? Or will it be gone at the sight of his broken husband?





	To Be Welcomed Home Again

**Author's Note:**

> long time no see! so, i've been writing for kuro week while also dealing with school, which is why nanny hasn't updated. BUT i did write this little thing pretty recently after talking about an au with my discord pals. i fuckin LOVE fantasy shit like it's my favorite?? so i loved writing this and i hope you guys like it too  
> OH and for this, altea isn't a planet, it's a country going to war against another country ala Fantasy and Swords and stuff

He comes back different.

 And he wants to leave the moment he sees the castle peek over the hills. The moment he sees the indent of his room- of _their_ room- as he cranes his neck into the sun. He's never run from a battle- look at his body and you'll see a hundred decisions, a hundred fights, a hundred deaths, deaths of living, breathing people and the death of his innocence, his life, his warmth. He has had to make cold, calculated decisions in the heat of battle, in the hushed discussions in cloth tents. He knows how to make a decision. He knows how to fight.

 And once upon a time his hands knew other things, too. How to hold a body smaller than his. How to rock a person in the dead of night, hold them to his chest as they cried. He knew how to wipe away tears as they fell. His fingers knew how to card through thick, curly hair. His hands once knew how to hold something other than the pommel of a sword or the throat of an enemy.

 But his hands- they're different now, too. One flesh and blood that remembers how to love. And one sick and shining. One that has only known the warm splatter of an enemy's life. He doesn't want this hand anywhere near the love of his life- doesn’t want it on his copper skin, doesn't want it in his hair, on his lips, on his hips. He'd rather chop it off again and let the stump take its place- at least then he knew he couldn't hurt Lance. Not fully. Not with one hand.

 They breach the inside of the castle and he gulps. Keith is at his side and squeezes his shoulder. He looks different, too, hair longer and fastened to the back of his head. Scars are on his body, in his eyes, but he's strong, a fortress. He would do anything to get back to Hunk. He didn't care about the condition he came in- as long as he came back, that's all that mattered.

 Shiro wishes he was that strong.

 Allura is waiting for him in the throne room, eyes welled with tears. She looks different, too- her once long hair has been chopped up to her chin, making her look older, more of the queen she is. Her eyes have hardened and Shiro knows she has made hard decisions, too, ones that have affected thousands of lives. Ones that have affected him.

 He smiles at her and holds her as close as he can with one hand, and she looks at him with pity as she pulls away. “I'm so sorry, brother,” she whispers. Her hand cautiously touches his new arm and he yanks it back. “I am so sorry.”

 After, Keith clapses his upper arm- the human one, thankfully. “I'm going to go home now, Shiro.” He's filled with barely contained excitement and anxiousness, and Shiro can't help but smile.

 “You'll be fine, Keith. Hunk's gonna love you either way.”

 Keith smiles at this. “And Lance will love you either way too, idiot. Stop dicking around and go up to him.”

 Shiro stiffens and opens his mouth to protest- “If you don't I'll kick your ass twice over. You know I can, gramps.”

 Shiro snorts. “I mean, if that helps you sleep at night-”

 “By the Goddess, go already!” Keith's laughing as he shoves Shiro in the direction of the royal quarters.

 Shiro shakes his head, grinning, as he turns on his heel to the familiar route of his- their room. Their room.

 When was the last time he was in there? Two years, apparently- time doesn't go by the same on the battle field. It's calculated. Time isn't something to treasure or to be spent- it's a weapon, something to draw out the enemy. It's a resource, something to train recruits. It's torture. Something to break a soul. But here, it's not. Not in these hallways, the marble floor unchanged. The windows spare a glance to the outside world- it's just after dawn, and not even the flowers are awake yet. The sky blushes against a grudging twilight blue, stars slowly peeling from view, but still there, still fighting for the last chance to glow.

 It's always been like this, ever since he could remember. Waddling through the hallways of his home. But it's different, somehow. He's fought for this. He's killed for this view, for these flowers, for this sky. For these marble floors. For his sister. For Keith.

 He can't help but feel dried blood on it all.

 The hallway slopes downward, the lights dimming. Outside, the garden view changes- vineyards replace it, and he can see the pepperings of sand crawling out into the landscape.

 He's almost there. Almost to him.

 Lance had been excited when he moved, officially, into Shiro's quarters. Right by the ocean, double doors that opened straight onto a balcony that Lance has, more than once, more than a dozen times, jumped off of to get a headstart to the shore. (Every time, _every, single fucking time_ it left Shiro's heart in his throat. How that boy didn't break his ankles at least once amazed him. And how Shiro didn't die of a heart attack witnessing this amazed him, too.) Lance gushed that he had never been to the sea- no one had been to the sea if they were from the slums. They smelt it, felt it teasing on their noses and on their tongues, but they had never been. Shiro had taught Lance how to swim here. It was only two years ago, but it felt like decades.

 Shiro comes to the double doors and stops.

 He remembers when he first met Lance- met him, not saw him. When he came into the throne chamber, blue eyes lit up like the ocean on the break of dawn. His clothes were the best he had but they looked shabby in comparison to the glory of the castle, and to Shiro's own clothing. Rich, fine silks and heavy fabrics to keep him warm, all intricately designed with threads of gold and silver against black. But somehow, Lance made his ratty outfit look good- what didn't he make good, honestly? And as Lance marveled, taking in the high ceilings, the marble floors, the paintings decorating the walls, he brought his gaze to Shiro's and looked at him as if _he_ were the most amazing thing in all the castle. And he smiled. A smile that broke the well-mannered ice sheltering Shiro's unscathed heart.

 And that was just within a few moments of meeting him. The boy didn't even open his mouth and Shiro was in love.

 Would Lance still look at him like that? Wide-eyed, beautiful, breathless- would he look at the man before him and see not a soldier, not a commander, not a prince, but his husband? His lover?

 Only one way to find out.

 Shiro opens the doors to find the room undisturbed. All but the bed, its sheets thrown about and pillows somehow strewn on the floor. Shiro bites back a smile- after all this time Lance still doesn't know how to make a bed, or even how to get up without making a mess. It's familiar. It's beautiful, somehow.

 Shiro cautiously steps in and closes the door behind him with a click. He goes to call for Lance but finds his voice is lodged in his throat, too scared to come out. When he looks down at his hands, he realizes they're shaking. Hard.

 He's about to turn back. About to run back to the battlefields, back to the blood, when the bathroom door opens.

 “Takashi?”

 Shiro's breath catches- Lance's voice still sends shivers down his spine. Still sends goosebumps up his arms. “Lance?”

 And suddenly Lance is on top of him, clinging to him. His arms wrapped around Shiro's neck as his feet dangle above the ground. “Takashi,” Lance breathes, “Takashi.” Lance is shaking, too, his body still so small against Shiro's. Cautiously, he wraps his flesh arm around Lance, pulling him closer to his chest.

 And then, slowly, he wraps his metal arm around him, too. And Lance, this beautiful boy, doesn’t flinch, doesn't even shiver against the cold of it, just clings tighter, pressing his face against the nook of Shiro's neck, and Shiro realizes Lance is _crying._ Not crying like Allura. Not pity, not guilt, but- “Takashi, Takashi, Takashi,” his voice is reverent even through the crying. “My heart.”

 Shiro doesn't realize he's crying until he feels the damp of Lance's shirt. “I'm home,” he croaks. “I won't leave you again, Lance.” He presses a kiss against the top of his hair, against his neck, his shoulder, anything he can get his lips on. “Never, never again.”

 Lance pulls back a fraction to look at Shiro, to really look, and Shiro tenses. He knows he looks different. The ugly slash across his nose, the white forelock pressed against his forehead. He's not the man that Lance loved when he left, and for a moment, he prepares himself for Lance to wrench himself away from Shiro. To scream at him to get out, to leave, as if he could see the blood on Shiro's hands. Sometimes, it feels like the swords are still pressed against his skin, no matter how much time has passed to heal his wounds into scars. He prays Lance doesn't feel them, too.

 But Lance only laughs, relieved, so relieved, a smile blooming on his tear stained face. “Hello, handsome. Come here often?” And Shiro can't help but laugh too, and once he starts he can't stop, the tears coming without his say so. He laughs as Lance presses kisses to all his face, not avoiding the scar but kissing onto of that, too, loving it with all the rest of his skin. He kisses his eyelids, the tip of his nose, his chin, the rise of his cheek bones until he finally, finally kisses Shiro's lips.

 Shiro breathes against it and pulls Lance in close, and he can feel his lips trembling but he doesn't care. Leaning in he deepens the kiss, relearning the curve of Lance's kisses, the warmth of his tongue. He kisses him until he can't breathe and then kisses him some more, nibbling on his bottom lip, licking it better and then doing it all over again. Because this is Lance, his Lance, and Goddess, how had he forgotten the taste? The warmth? Even in dreams it wasn't like this. Lance whimpers against his touch until he pulls away, panting and flushed. But he's smiling, bright like the sun, and it warms Shiro down to his core. All the scars that litter his body, that cover his soul, even the arm he hates throbs with love towards this sun, this ball of life and love that somehow chose him. That still chooses him despite it all.

 _“Takashi,”_ Lance says again. And Shiro knows he's home.


End file.
